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by smalld1171



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s09e16 Blade Runners, Gen, One Shot, The First Blade (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-05 02:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17316158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smalld1171/pseuds/smalld1171
Summary: It wasn’t so easy for Dean to drop the blade.  Tag to 9x16 Blade Runners





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The grace and fluidity of the movement would be a thing of beauty in any other circumstance; the strike executed with absolute precision and intent as, like the proverbial hot knife through butter, the head is detached from the body in one swift motion, without the slightest sound.

It is a perfect, flawless kill.

There is only a modicum of curiosity evident in the tilt of his head, as the morbid disbursement of body parts makes a slight thud and a pool of blood gathers in earnest to stain the formerly pristine hardwood. His attention quickly wanes, drawn to the pulsating rhythm that has taken root in his arm. Totally fixated on the flickering tendrils that march upwards along his starving veins and anxious to act on the overwhelming urge to somehow consume and soak in every juicy bit, he is unaware of the audience that is riveted to his every move.

They watch him intently and with growing unease; the seasoned hunter that wields the newly discovered blade with an unsettling vigor, the ferocity that has encompassed the man's stance and features screaming out loud and clear the affect the mark and blade harness when united together.

A perfect, flawless killer.

It's a twisting, distorted pattern of colour that travels just below the surface of his skin. Like embers that burn brightly within a bed of cooling lava they hide their true, deadly purpose beneath a mask of mesmerizing, shimmering light and lay in wait for their opportunity to wreak havoc; to burn all they touch.

There is the sting of pain, it courses through his arm and the digits of his hand, but it is steadfastly being overshadowed by an underlying current of power like he has never known; like the buildup of electricity used to jumpstart a stagnant motor and make it hum in delighted response; welcoming its resurrection.

"Dean."

He growls low and deep and shakes his head in annoyance at the intrusion.

"Dean! Snap out of it!"

The connection wavers and sputters, the synergy interrupted as a familiar voice filters through the haze and clouded eyes turn slowly toward what sounds like home. Sam.

His brow furrows in confusion as he languidly processes the features of his brother's face, the trickle of blood running a trail along his cheek stirring something deep within his chest. He wants to say something, ask something, but his mouth is devoid of moisture. All he can manage is to leave his mouth gaping open and pant out short breaths in an effort to try and soothe the fire burning along every fibre of his body.

"Dean, drop the blade."

Blade. Right, the blade; the reason they are here. Eyes track downward and catch sight of the weapon nestled perfectly in his palm, its constant thrum starting to numb the appendage that holds it. He can't drop it, he needs it, they' need it to finish the job. Lifting it higher he takes in the contours of its design, turning it slowly in his grip and...

"Look at me, Dean."

The desperation in Sam's voice causes his arm to lower but he does not yet relinquish the grasp, unsure at this point if he should, or if he even can. He holds his brother's gaze before turning to catch the eye of Crowley, who remains standing at a safe distance.

"Listen to moose, mate. That blade has some pretty major mojo and it is currently messing with yours."

"He's right, Dean. Please, let it go."

His arm shakes as he fights the force it wields; muscles tense and cramp as body and mind battle for control; to let it drop unceremoniously to the ground below or help expel the wrath it has waited so long to dole out.

"Drop it."

Uncertainty flows steadily in his brain; so much good he could do, so many things he could atone for.

"You've done good, I mean we actually have what we came for, and how often does that happen, right? We need to go."

He catches Sam's eyes dart to the blade, to Crowley and back to him; catches the small glint of fear in his eyes, and it sends a shiver up his spine.

"You need to trust me on this, Dean."

Sam? There is something off, something the younger man isn't telling him.

Fingers begin to loosen and uncurl at Sam's urging, strengthened by the gentle cadence woven through his mantra of comforting words

It's over. It's done. You're okay. Let go. You're doing great. Almost. That's it, Dean, let it go.

He gasps in startled surprise and Sam flinches in tandem at the resurgence of it; as the next round of raw and unyielding power is unleashed and a flurry of red bolts across skin to gather at the epicentre.

Colour bubbles up to the raised flesh with savagery, converging on mass to gather at the mark that has branded him, that has tied him to his new, and only, weapon of choice. A spasm rips through the brief clarity of a moment ago and he cries out, his grip doing the exact opposite of what he intended; it tightens around the weapon with renewed strength in an unconscious response to the threat. The appendage glows a foreboding, angry crimson and a groan vibrates through his throat as legs give way to land roughly on the surface below.

Words float in the murkiness of his mind, the shouts of his name in the background slowly fading into nothingness, replaced by the voice of the blade's previous charge. Cain's words push to the forefront and boom loudly in his head. You are worthy. Great cost. Burden.

His own voice bellows out into the mixture of memories.

You mean a killer like you?

Yes.

Absorbed in his own inner dialogue he doesn't notice the silent conversation that takes place around him; of the haphazard plan hatched by nods and expressive eyes; of a decision made, culminating with him being approached slowly and cautiously from behind.

He is worthy to carry the blade, to wear the mark. He is a killer, and a damn good one; has proved his worthiness over and over again most of his life, and solidified the fact after he took his last breath.

"You have to move, Crowley!"

Too late.

An eerie smile graces his lips and seems out of place on his hardened features as he rises to his feet, legs now sturdy and strong under his weight; a sense of calm and purpose washing over him in waves.

Yes, it all makes sense now; the way it felt when the shackles and hooks were dislodged from his tattered body and various implements were thrust into his waiting, eager hands. He had his favourite toys, sure, but they were just teasers; all in preparation and anticipation of this tantamount moment, as he becomes one with his instrument of death.

A gust of frustration filters through flared nostrils at the thought; that he mistakenly denied the true essence of his soul for thirty long years, believing like a fool that he was righteous; had to keep fighting the good fight even as the fires of Hell burned every layer of skin from his frame.

He smiles at the acceptance he now feels; the ability to be at peace with how he had secretly longed to have his turn; how he craved it. When he finally spit out an affirmative response it was not to save himself from another round on the rack, but an act of liberation; acknowledging and submitting entirely to the litany of coaxing he had heard rattle around in his head, droned out in his own voice.

Give in to your darkest desires, Dean. Be free.

He relished it; the power he held over another entity as he began to pierce and mangle, dice and fillet those whose evil deeds deserved vengeance of the highest degree.

There is movement behind him, his heightened senses having been aware of the demon's slow approach and current presence at his back. Time to have some fun. He smirks as he spins on his heel, his free hand swinging hard and fast as it finds its target; the crack of bone music to his ears. He hoists the creature up with one hand, bashing its back with brutal force against the wall and applying pressure to its throat with ease.

The thing sputters and claws at the arm that holds it, surprise blanketing its face as he lifts the creature until its feet can no longer find purchase on the floor; left to dangle uselessly in the air.

"It...it's me m...m... mate... r'member? Your n..new bff?"

The vermin struggles beneath his grasp and he relishes the fear he sees dance in the demon's eyes.

"Little h...help here?"

Staring into the ugly mug of this puny demon his mind travels back to his vacation in Purgatory; to all the times he towered over monsters of every description in this exact same way.

The King of Hell looks scared. Awesome.

His frame starts to tremble; the thrill of the memories that have been released from behind his almost impenetrable wall flowing freely now and assaulting...he shakes his head...no, not assaulting...those memories are purifying him.

"Dean! You need to stop!"

Yeah, he should stop, he wants it to stop; the ache in his head throbbing to an almost unbearable crescendo but... he can't stop the images that run rampant through his brain, they keep coming and coming.

Pathetic really, how they would taunt and mock him, their bravado only evident when they thought he was just another easy kill. He chuckles at the memory; when faced with the bringer of their extinction their smug, arrogant words turned to incredulous pleas of mercy, eliciting nothing but maniacal laughter and a bloody, painful death in their wake.

That place, Purgatory, cemented his transformation into the ultimate killing machine.

He hisses at the flare of pain that spikes in his brain.

"DEAN! C'mon bro, I know you and this is not you."

A chuckle erupts from deep within his chest at that statement.

"No, Sam...this is totally me. Finally I can do something useful with my particular talent. You know the one. Hunting things. Killing things?"

Something doesn't feel right.

"Fight it!"

"And let's not forget...torturing souls and...and spending a year..."

He wipes at the sweat that has formed a layer of moisture on his face, the searing heat that suddenly envelops him seeming a very viable threat to causing his blood to boil.

Something is definitely wrong.

"Dean?"

Blinking his eyes he narrows in on the image of Crowley, pinned to the wall wearing the unflattering hue of a beet. He immediately loosens his grip and searches out his brother for some semblance of sanity, only to see him chained to a damn column and bleeding from slashes across his face.

"Sammy, what's happening?"

"Hey, Dean. The Coles notes version? Typical stuff, you got whammied, big time."

His features soften slightly and he offers the smallest smirk to his brother before turning back to the so called king.

"Crowley musta really pissed me off this time, huh?"

"Charming. I was actually trying to help, and just look how that turned out. Don't know how you goody two shoes handle it. Well, can't say I didn't try. Back to bad deeds for yours truly."

"Yeah, aren't you a peach?"

Feeling a steady weight in his hand he glances down to the unsurprising presence of the blade before surveying the scene; the damage apparently includes a decapitated wizard. He smirks defiantly at Crowley.

"Somehow I bet I could off this little bastard quick and easy like, just say the word, Sam."

"It's tempting, really, but not today, man, we might still need him."

"You do know I can hear you, right boys?"

Fatigued and disoriented his arm falls away completely from Crowley and the demon's shoes clack against the surface of the floor.

"Time to drop the blade Dean, so we can get the hell out of here and figure things out."

Dizzy, hot, and confused he doesn't think twice as he hears his brother's gentle voice offer him the answer to what his next move should be.

The bone makes a thud as it meets the floor and the surroundings immediately start to sway and dip around him.

"Dean? Hey Crowley, cut me loose already."

As Crowley steps around him he braces himself, his back against the wall briefly before choosing to slide down the surface of it rather than expel the energy it would take to stay upright. Utter and complete exhaustion worms its way quickly through every muscle of his body and he blindly reaches out to cradle his burning arm protectively into his side. An incessant throb makes itself known in his head; he turns toward the coolness of the wall, willing it to ward off the pain from climbing up any further on the annoyance scale. He can hear the faint murmuring of Sam and Crowley around him but can't be bothered to try and process the words or their meaning, instead allowing his eyes to close and his brain to drift.

He is almost out by the time the unlikely duo arrive back at his side, barely making out Crowley's less than stellar bedside manner.

"Bollocks, he's a bloody mess."

By the way his body has gone on strike and the gaping pit he feels form in his stomach he figures that is probably an understatement of massive proportions.

"Just shut up, Crowley, and help me get him up."

"Touchy, touchy."

"Dean?

His eyes open to slits as Sam's face comes into view before forcing them to widen, to at least appear coherent for what he knows is coming next.

"Hey man, you doing okay?"

He's not sure how to answer that as he catches sight of the blade hooked in Sam's belt; as he fights to quell the adrenaline beginning to surge up from his gut and the flutter of longing he has to feel, to hold that power again. He declines the opportunity to voice those terrifying admissions aloud, opting instead to play a familiar tune from his repertoire.

"M'good...you?"

Sam chuckles softly and smiles at him fondly at his words. He hopes the smile he makes a concentrated effort to send back turns out to be a convincing one.

"Time to go, okay?"

All he can manage now is a nod as he is hoisted up and his body rebels against the movement, automatically tilting towards his brother for support. The trio begins to move slowly in tandem with each other and he starts to drift, can feel the tide of unconsciousness coming in and as it does he can hear Sam's gentle voice and soothing words echo in his ear.

"It's okay, you can rest now, Dean. I promise, whatever is happening with you we'll figure it out, together."

As darkness finally wraps him tightly in its embrace, he can only hope that they can.


End file.
